Feverish
by thatswhyyyoudont
Summary: Slash. Jerry finds Peter at Charley's funeral. Fic requested by Iatrophobia, sorry it took so long!, and the concept is hers.


Peter had been feeling it for days now, maybe a week. Hot flushes and headaches and strange dreams, but the headaches were the worst. Like hangovers, when he used to get them, the very worst like a hammer within his skull timed to his pulse. But he was practically immune to hangovers now, drank just enough to keep him going and not enough to warrant such after effects. He didn't know what was wrong with him. Even now, with no drink in the last 24 hours, he was feeling shaky on his feet, though the lack of sleep and lack of space with so many people crammed in the small chapel may have something to do with that.

He followed these people blindly out of the church, ruining his shoes in the damp grass. He had felt numb throughout the service, but now the approaching darkness was making him uneasy; why was the funeral taking place in the evening? They never did, in Peter's experience. An evening in the freezing rain in winter. He didn't understand it.

Allowing himself to fall behind everyone else, he tried to ignore the cold and the oppressive sadness of the people around him, already feeling overwhelmed. He may have only met Charley two, three times, but he was still the fifth person Peter was having to see put in the ground unnaturally early, and it just made him tired. Funerals took something out of you, as if you gave a piece of yourself away to be buried with them. Having no Ginger to go home to, and little work at this time of year, didn't help.

When they lowered the coffin, it made him choke up. The emotion took him by surprise, so swift and without give; he hadn't expected it to get to him so much. He clenched his eyes shut and tried to force it down, thinking, _there are people here who are really grieving, who loved him and have really lost someone, so get a fucking grip-_

Behind him, someone briefly touched his shoulder, but he ignored them. He had heard someone approach a moment ago, but he didn't know anyone here and thought they must have mistaken him.

His eyes snapped open when a pair of arms encircled his waist, a firm body pressing against his back. Looking down, seeing those strong arms and pale, pale skin, he knew immediately who it was and felt his heart sink. Panic setting in, he attempted to push the hands off, tears of frustration coming to his eyes when he didn't get anywhere. He looked around desperately; no-one was paying them any heed, but if he struggled much harder he would draw attention to himself. And who would believe him? It wouldn't be fair; there was no need to ruin Charley's death with his own. So he gave up, slumped back against the vampire and let his tears fall unchecked. So this was it; he was going to die. As if reading his mind, Jerry began to stroke slow circles into Peter's hand; a reassurance, or just mockery. Peter gave one last token wriggle - the embrace was obscene - but the vampire's arms didn't give.

Peter watched Charley's mother through his tears, sending his silent sympathy to her. He wondered which was worse, to lose your parents or your child and decided, without a doubt, your child. Most people lost their parents at some point, in some way, but losing a child must undo you. Noticing a man standing near her, he wondered if it was Charley's father. Same stance, same hair, though darkened by the rain. He stared for a few seconds, remembering what Charley had said. Jerry must have felt him stiffen, but said nothing.

Most were now beginning to file away. Jerry's arms loosened around Peter's waist and pulled him back gently, out of the way of someone trying to pass. The grass was starting to smell damp under the thickening rain, and despite the pit of his stomach knotting with fear and trepidation, Peter found himself unconsciously pressing backwards into Jerry for warmth. Realising this, he snapped out of it and turned abruptly, and this time Jerry let him yank himself free.

He didn't bother running, simply allowed Jerry to follow him until they had left the crowd and the cemetery behind. The rest of the world was alarmingly quiet, beneath the rain. On a deserted hill at this hour, it was hard to believe that the city was only half an hour away. Peter stopped somewhere along the wall outside of the cemetery, away from the gates, unsure of what else to do. He was really shaking now, and not just from the cold. The vampire reached out to touch him, and he flinched openly.

Jerry let his hand drop back to his side. "I won't hurt you." The first words he'd said to him, aside from mocking his parents' death.

Peter looked up at him almost angrily, unbelieving. "Then what are you doing here?" he said harshly, voice broken with tears. "Paying your respects?"

"Seeing you're all right," he murmured smoothly.

Peter stared at him for a moment, convinced he must have heard him wrong. That was bizarre. Then he swallowed and broke his gaze. "Go, then. I'm fine." It was an attempt to sound calm and controlled but sounded more like a weak plea.

"I can drive you home."

He shook his head, refusing to go along with whatever game the vampire was playing. His chauffeur was meant to be here already, and couldn't be far away. "I've got a ride. I'm all right now." Hugging himself for warmth, he turned from Jerry to watch the road, eyes following the line of cars descending into the night. Discreetly, he wiped the rain from his watch; his guy was late. He fixed his gaze back to the cars. "And aren't you supposed to be dead?"

Jerry smiled pityingly. "It takes more than a stake nowadays."

Peter was unsurprised, too tired to be really bitter. Of course it did. Humans advanced over centuries, so why shouldn't vampires? He fucking knew it. "Just kill me here, then," he told him. It was quiet enough, no-one would notice. His new security guard back home couldn't be much older than 20, and Peter wasn't dragging anyone else down with him.

"If I was going to hurt you, I'd have done it already." He reached for Peter again but thought better of it, letting his hand drop back to his side. "You're freezing. Why don't you wait in my car, at least?"

Peter still wouldn't look at him. He leaned against the mossy wall while his head swam, ruining his sodden suit further along with the shoes, inwardly cursing his driver and hating how it all looked almost pretty in the moonlight. He wished he'd known about this hill beforehand; it was so close, and there were no stars in the city. Too late now, he couldn't come back here. Fingers curled around his own then, startling him out of his thoughts. He looked at Jerry warily.

"Come on," he said, tugging him forward, and Peter was so tired and cold and uncaring that he let himself be tugged, following Jerry to his car as limply as a rag-doll. _Why, _he thought silently, but didn't see the point in voicing it, as Jerry was clearly going to do whatever he wanted whether that involved killing Peter or not. And despite everything, it was a relief to be in the warmth. Jerry began rubbing one of his freezing hands between his own.

"I'm not Charley. I'm not going to fight you."

"Good."

They sat in silence until all of the mourners had left, finding things to watch in the dark, Peter still shivering in his drenched clothes. He realised he was still letting Jerry hold his hand and took it back. He was getting restless; his chauffeur wasn't answering his phone. Suddenly the obvious hit to him, and he looked at Jerry in alarm. "You killed him?"

"Who? Oh, no. No, I haven't."

Peter looked away, unconvinced, but there wasn't a lot he could do about it.

Jerry played with his keys. "So, can I drive you home?"

Just before the city, Peter's chauffeur passed them, but Peter was crying silently and privately and didn't want to give it away by talking. He was prepared to throw himself out if Jerry tried anything but for some reason he didn't, not even when they parked and entered the mostly isolated building. Jerry's invitation from Charley's friend - he couldn't even remember his name - clearly still stood, or maybe just walking in with Peter counted as a non-verbal invitation. His books weren't renowned for their details.

Once they were in his apartment, Peter made for the bathroom as soon as possible, wriggling out of his coat and jacket and discarding his shoes as soon as the door was locked behind him. He also freed himself of the tie and loosened some of his shirt buttons, took off his damp socks and rubbed at his hair leisurely with a towel. Giving Jerry more than enough time to excuse himself. To hell with his security guard. Though he may go mad if he saw another body via those monitors. He glanced at himself in the mirror; his straightening work destroyed by the rain, hair springing ridiculously, and he was almost as pale as Jerry himself, with dark circles under his eyes. Burning hot, too, that wasn't good. He found some dry clothes and eventually he returned to the front room, barefoot and still rubbing half-heartedly at his hair, having convinced himself that Jerry would be gone and he could get on with drinking and feeling sorry for himself in peace. He was disappointed.

"I don't need you here. I'm not a complete arsehole. I have friends I can call." The message clear, _why don't you fuck off? _Jerry looked unperturbed.

"But will you call them?"

"Yes. If I want them."

It was true; he had plenty of people, but whether he could bring himself to get them here was another thing. He would like to just settle down and drink. Jerry seemed to suspect this, and wasn't happy to leave him to it. Peter tried a different tack.

"And I'm not really sick. I'm fine."

The shake in his voice told him he wasn't convincing anyone. He felt a brief flicker of annoyance, but gave up. Letting the towel drop, he sat at his window seat and didn't protest when Jerry joined him, rigid with the tension of trying to keep it together. Going along with Jerry's bullshit, pretending he was here out of concern, was an effort he could do without on top of everything else. How could Jerry expect him to fall for it?

"Peter," the vampire said, and despite everything, Peter couldn't help letting a few tears out, caving to the offer of comfort. For it did sound like genuine comfort, regardless of what his survival instincts told him. Jerry looped one arm around him and held him, and some tiny, animal essence of Peter was glad of it, glad he was there and had forced Peter to let him be there, with minimal effort on his own part. Because he needed to be held, regardless of whom it was.

"I'm so fucking tired," he said into Jerry's shoulder, as if it were an excuse.

He didn't know how long he sat there for, in some numb state between crying where his head was empty and silent, when Jerry asked him if he wanted anything.

"No." His eyes were swimming again and he scrubbed at them impatiently. "Yes. A drink."

"You sure?" He managed to say it without sounding condescending, so Peter didn't bristle.

"What do you want?" Peter asked instead, clawing back some of his old energy. His mind had ran over several possibilities in the car, and it came back to one now; that the vampire was saying sorry. But the thought seemed ridiculous. He had thought that Jerry didn't even know of his existence, that he'd hidden successfully as a child. But no, Jerry had recognised him that night in the basement. And the fact that he, Jerry, all those years ago had set off the alarm on his way out of Peter's house, drawing the neighbours to Peter's aid, no longer seemed like an accident. _Panicked and scarpered, _the policeman had said. Well, maybe. Little Peter had been too traumatised to bother correcting him, that his parents' killer had moved around and out of his house at ease, as if strolling through a park, no panic. He had willingly let Peter live. Peter could now ask the questions he'd been burning to ask, but he kept pushing them violently away; he wasn't up to it tonight. It occurred to him that Jerry hadn't attempted an answer to his current question, so he tried again. "There's nothing for you here if you're not going to attack me."

"I'm not."

"Why are you here, then?" When the vampire didn't answer again, Peter turned over the night's events in his mind and became suddenly conscious of the arm around him, the fingers that had held his own. "You can't want to sleep with me."

"Why not?" Jerry chuckled darkly. "But no. At least, not now."

"And what does that mean?"

Jerry sighed a little. "It means you should relax."

He pushed Peter's hair off his burning forehead and felt it, fingertips in his curls. It was something Peter secretly loved, the feel of someone's fingers threading through his hair in such a way, but it also made him want to kill Jerry, having the cheek, the inhumanity, to destroy everything he held close to him and then figure out how to replace them in the space of a few hours. But then he said the magic words that made Peter's anger dissipate: "I'll get you a drink if you want." Knowing just how to treat him, when to push and when to give in. There was nothing in Peter's books about vampires reading minds, but he wouldn't be surprised. "Midori," Peter told him, in case they couldn't, and slid off him so he could get up.

Drinking would mean he probably shouldn't take any more medicine, but it didn't seem to be having an effect anyway. And drink always had an effect. He took the glass from Jerry gratefully and downed it. Jerry had had the sense to bring the bottle, and Peter took it from him and poured another. If he was going to spend the night curled on a vampire's lap for comfort - his parents' and lover's murderer, no less - he'd need it. It gave him the energy to resist when Jerry tried to hold him again.

"But I don't want - this," he said, as if there had been no break in the conversation. The booze had made him braver, but he still mumbled slightly and ducked his head.

"You might change your mind," Jerry said cheerfully, more amused than offended. He ran a lazy hand over Peter's hair again. "You should take a bath. Get warm."

He burned at the thought. Wrong on every level, and yet...he was clearly more messed up than he'd ever given himself credit for.

"You want a hand?"

Peter could hear the tease in his voice, though it was gentle and without threat. He'd need another drink first.

He hated to admit it, even to himself, but soaking in the hot water with Jerry massaging his scalp was exactly what he needed. It was like some sick joke; this parenting, filling in for what he had taken away. And the sad thing was that he wanted it. More than anything in the world he just wanted to be looked after. He'd had enough Midori at this point to not care that, secretly, he was enjoying this. The feel of those hands on his back and the thought of what they could do to him, willing to understand him and take him away from it all. The first person he'd let this close since Ginger, and unlike Ginger and most of the others, it did feel close, intimate. Not that it had anything to do with anything, but he knew vampires tended to take their relationships seriously. Matched themselves to someone with their head as well as their heart. _God._ Peter cringed out of his thoughts. _The hell is wrong with me? _If he kept this up he was going to get hard or fall in love; he was drunk enough to easily do either.

"Do you want anything?" He asked Jerry, gesturing to the bottle vaguely. It only just occurred to him to ask, for he wanted some privacy, and Jerry took the hint and left him to soak. Peter relaxed and looked down at himself under the water, wondering what Jerry could see that he wanted. If he was just messing with him - _playing with his food,_ Peter thought with a shudder - driving him home and bathing him and putting up with his bitching was a bit excessive. He stood up a little unsteadily, and had to lean back against the damp wall for a moment. After he towelled off and found his robe, he avoided the front room and headed to the kitchen. He brought the bottle with him and for the first time did the sensible thing; poured the rest of it down the sink and proceeded to drink water and eat a little. He went back to the bathroom to clean his teeth and then dawdled in there, suddenly shy of the vampire in his returning sobriety. He couldn't hide in his bathroom all night, or get to his panic room without going through the front room, where he had a feeling Jerry was. With a sigh, he went back.

Jerry was sat on the window seat with a beer, looking out, and he turned when he heard Peter come in. He looked at him steadily for a moment, as if seeing the change in him that sobriety brought, the fresh fear. "You should go to bed," he said, like they had been together years and Jerry had every right to order him around for his own good. It was tempting to play along, in his feeble-minded state, but Peter didn't bite.

"With you?" he said dryly, putting up one last token fight, as if he wasn't convinced of Jerry's intentions.

"You know I'm not going to do anything," Jerry said, equally dry, not bothering to soothe.

Peter's head was killing him. The booze probably hadn't helped. He was such a moron.

"Are you all right?"

Things got a little fuzzy after that. He came to himself in bed, still in his robe, with Jerry's hand on his forehead. Jerry asked him again if he was all right. "Do you want a doctor?"

"No." No, he did not want Jerry to kill a doctor. He wanted no-one.

"You're still burning up."

Peter couldn't care less.

"Are you taking anything for it?"

"No." He didn't have anything. Born in a cold climate, he had a tough constitution and just didn't get sick. He couldn't afford to, with his lifestyle.

"I can go out and get you something."

"No.." he was feeling better and gave an absent minded sigh of contentment, not really taking in the offer. He felt ill, but he was being looked after and almost enjoying it. He missed men, wanted Jerry to hold him again. He must be delirious. Then his brain started working again, and he struggled to sit up, saying, "Actually, there is a pharmacy near here..."

And just like that he was gone. Peter got out of bed and locked the door, leaned against it and closed his eyes. Warm, Jerry's hand had been warm, but that was impossible. It must be because he himself was so feverish. He was still trembling now. He let his head roll back against the door, the night's events playing before his eyes, though he was too tired to analyse them properly. He opened his eyes and watched the monitors, watched Jerry's car leave. The security guard hadn't been harmed.

Maybe the vampire had held a little respect for Charley. The kid did have guts. So he had come along to the funeral and just happened to see Peter and...and then what? Felt sorry for him? Felt responsible for their paths crossing yet again? Bollocks. He was probably just waiting for Peter to recover enough strength to stand up straight before devouring him. Peter wandered around the empty apartment looking for the bottle to take to back to bed with him before remembering what he'd done with it. Oh well. He got back under the covers empty handed and thought clearly instead. He'd have to move. And it would be so much fucking hassle. But he had to prioritise, deal with that later; soon he would have a pissed vampire to deal with when Jerry found he'd been locked out in return for his efforts.

Peter called security, and with a series of bullying, coaxing and finally bribing, had everyone sent home. It made him feel both better and worse. He could get some provisions and hide in his panic room. He thought about this lifelessly, without the panic. He had let the vampire bathe him less than an hour ago; would freaking out now really make a difference? "No," he murmured aloud, and rolled over.

He didn't sleep, but drifted comfortably in and out of semi-consciousness; it was very soothing. At one point, he chanced to open his eyes - and saw Jerry. When he didn't disappear in a second, Peter realised he wasn't dreaming and sat up.

"Sorry," the vampire said, but he looked like he was trying not to laugh.

"How did you get in?"

"Fire escape." He paused. "It's OK, Peter, I knew you would do this. I tried to leave this at the desk - " he held up a pharmacy bag for Peter's inspection, " - but I couldn't find anyone."

Peter took it, avoiding his eyes and his grin. "Thanks," he muttered ungraciously. He tightened his robe over himself when Jerry went to get him a glass of water, then opened the bag. Jerry watched him take the drugs from the window, where he was leaning on the sill.

"So. Should I go?" he asked leisurely, as if he didn't care one way or the other.

Peter looked up at him wonderingly. He had no idea what he wanted.

"You don't look so good."

"Does that mean you're staying?"

"It means I want to get you a doctor if I don't."

Peter closed his eyes briefly at the prospect of an argument. "Don't be a dick."

That made him laugh. "OK, sure, stay here all on your own with a fever like that. That'll show me." Then he seemed to remember that he had found Peter at a funeral, and came away from the window. Peter felt his weight on the bed. "Come on, Peter," he said coaxingly, brushing his hair back for him. "Let me do something for you."

Placing his glass on the nightstand, Peter lay back down and said, "Fine. Stay."

Jerry smiled, and shifted into a more comfortable position on the bed.

Peter would prefer Jerry beside him rather than over him, but he didn't want to offer, but after a while Jerry asked him if he could lie down. Relieved, Peter told him he could. He didn't get under the covers, but removed his shoes and belt and eased himself down along Peter's side, and arm coming to rest around his waist. Peter observed the skin against his own dispassionately. In the movies, vampires were always white, but next to the sheen of Peter's underarm, Jerry was almost grey. Stone grey, the grey of so many years underground. Peter wondered idly how old he was.

"Do you want me gone when you wake up?" Jerry murmured. "Otherwise, I'll have to stay all day."

Peter frowned. "Yes."

"Yes to which?"

He sighed, turned off the lamp and pushed himself back into Jerry more comfortably. "Gone."

When he woke, the sun had long been up and Jerry had left him with a fresh glass of water and a note saying Peter didn't have to worry, he would stay away. He should have been relieved, but it almost felt like he'd failed some kind of test. He guessed he was still sick. He took more medicine, and tried to go back to sleep. If Jerry hadn't done that, Peter could have convinced himself that it had all been a dream.


End file.
